Poker Face
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Gin rummy, anyone? A change of plans for Hardcastle.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks again, Owl.

**Author's Note:** In "Never My Love", Hardcastle's never even met Mark's old girlfriend, Cyndy Weznek, yet there he is at the younger man's side, attending the interment.

And here's also a wink and a nod to Owl's story of a few weeks back: "Poker Evening" and a long-ago but unforgettable story by Poohblaze titled "Masked Man".

**Poker Face**

by L.M. Lewis

Mattie Grove arrived, bearing beer and bad tidings. Charlie Masaryk would be a last minute no-show tonight, having been involved in a hallway altercation down at the courthouse. The paperwork alone would occupy him well into the evening.

She rang the doorbell. Four would do in a pinch for poker, she supposed, and luckily Milt had promised to dragoon his live-in rehab project to join them tonight.

It was Frank who opened the door. He looked a little dour—but then it was hard to tell with him. He carried his slightly street-hardened view of life around with him like a turtle wears his shell.

Mattie stuck her head in and passed off the beer. "Not late, am I?"

"Nah, Charlie's—"

"Not coming," Mattie finished for him and then explained the particulars: two bikers, a jilted ex-girlfriend, and an accountant with anger management issues. "Lots of counter-complaints, but no bond for anybody."

"Just the three of us then." Frank glanced over his shoulder toward the den.

Mattie made a questioning face and Harper leaned in a little and murmured, "Mark took off."

She supposed she must have suddenly looked a lot more aghast. He quickly amended that report by saying, "Fully authorized—had some kinda bad news. Old girlfriend." Frank ducked his chin toward the den and added, "He was just explaining it when you knocked."

The guy who'd been doing the explaining wandered into sight at the bottom of the two steps that led down to the den. He looked a little dour too, and Milt Hardcastle was not ordinarily the dour type.

"No Charlie," Frank announced. "Had to work late."

"Well, that pretty much frosts it," Milt sighed. "I suppose we could play gin rummy."

"No Mark, huh?" Mattie asked curiously. She'd actually been looking forward to meeting the only one of Milt's rehabilitation projects to make it past three months.

"Nah, he wouldn't have been much fun." Milt glanced toward the front window, a purely habitual gesture; there was nothing to be seen except the reflection of the room on the glass. "You heard about that woman—the senator's aide?"

Mattie frowned. "The one who was killed in the crash in Mexico?"

"Yup—her."

"She was dating _Mark_?" Mattie looked aside to Frank, whose face mirrored her surprise.

"Nah." Milt shook his head. "I mean, not _recent_. I guess he knew her way back when—in Florida, he said." He cocked his head as though he were finally getting around to doing the math. "Must've been a while back." He was frowning now. "Ten years—'bout that. Maybe twelve."

"But they stayed in touch. Through everything. Oh," Mattie smiled sadly, "that's kinda sweet."

"I don't think they exactly stayed in touch," Milt admitted. "At least not this past year. And if it hadn't been in the newspaper—that's how he knew about it." He broke off, appearing to be pondering the invisible darkness beyond the glass again.

Frank put the beer down on the table. He pulled three of the long-necks from the cardboard carrier and reached for a bottle opener. He opened and poured—three glasses in turn to give the head a chance to settle in each.

"First girlfriend," he said, as though he'd done a little math himself, "or the first serious one."

"Okay, maybe," Milt admitted. "But we're talking ten years here," he added doubtfully, "maybe more."

"Yeah, but the first—the one who got away." Mattie accepted her glass with a nod. "You know how that is."

She thought she might have missed it if she hadn't been watching as Milt was offered the second glass at just that moment—the very fleeting look of regret on her old friend's face. She knew his grief for Nancy was deep and abiding. This might have been something older, yet not so deeply rooted.

"Intimations of mortality," she murmured. This got her a couple of odd looks. She shrugged and said, "The one that got away—and at a young age. You always remember her that way; she never gets any older, right?"

"Dunno." Frank cocked his head and then grinned. "I married my high school sweetheart."

Milt said nothing, but there might have been the smallest of nods—a strictly theoretical agreement.

"And anyway, then she dies," Mattie said carefully, "and you know it's really _really_ over. No turning back the hands of time. No meeting up on a street corner and going for a cup of coffee and maybe finding out she was missing you all those years, too."

This time Frank nodded, definitely theoretical, like a man who'd never had a moment of doubt that he'd made the right choice. He was smiling slightly as he pulled out a chair from the card table. It might have been sympathy for people who'd been less fortunate or less decisive.

"Gin rummy?" He picked up the deck of cards and started shuffling them.

Milt gave up his thoughtful frown with a sigh. This time it was hard to tell—the regret might have been merely for a shortage of poker players.

"You heading up to Canary Creek for that tournament this weekend?" Frank asked, the question directed at Milt, who'd been known to wax poetic about that town and its annual competition: rural virtues and wily trout.

This time, though, he hesitated. Milt might have just been sorting something out—maybe the cards he'd been dealt. Mattie watched him adjusting them and his face.

"Don't think I'm going up there this year," he finally admitted. "It's a long drive and . . ." He was frowning at the cards, possibly grasping for something to add to that. He brightened suddenly and added, "it's my turn to host the Halloween party."

"But—" Frank must've caught the sharply defensive glance Milt shot his way. He closed his mouth on whatever objection he'd been about to offer, like maybe one of the numerous times that they'd both heard the man say he hated costume parties and Halloween was for kids.

Mattie didn't even point out that the holiday was almost two weeks away, and even if he hadn't issued any invitations yet, he'd still have time to fit a little fishing trip in. No, she kept all that to herself.

Frank was still working through things, though, and finally ventured a wary, "It's not because of what happened a couple weeks ago while you were in Hawaii, is it?"

"Nah," Milt looked indignant, as if it were his veracity and not McCormick's reliability that was at issue.

Mattie just smiled and tucked her three aces in together, just to the side of her two pairs—jacks and queens. She deeply regretted that there wasn't such a thing as ten-card stud. And if Milt wanted to hang around and make sure his rehab project didn't succumb to intimations of mortality, she figured that was strictly his business.


End file.
